The Same Sound a Shotgun Makes.
“Did you ever notice that a credit card machine and a shotgun make the same noise? You know the little kind where they take the card and they put it in the little thing and then they put the paper slip over top and then they shove that little handle forward? It makes a loud Cha-Chik.” He holds the barrel close to my ear and cocks the .12 gauge. “It’s the exact same fucking sound,” He says, his eyes drilling through mine.
“Used to be there was this Jew I knew who kept one of those little machines next to his bed and if somebody was breaking in he’d yell “I GOT A SHOTGUN!” and make the noise. Said it scared them off every time. Now you tell me why that is. Why the fuck do a shotgun and a credit card machine make the same noise?”
I don’t answer because I know it’s a rhetorical question, and I don’t really give a fuck eitherways. This fuckin’ idiot could make grand observations and metaphors like he was bill shakespeare all day long. Don’t change the fact that he failed 8th grade twice, and he can’t remember to pay his bills. But whaddya gonna do? You can’t change a guys life like that. It’s like when you train a dog to recognize it’s name, he may perk his ears up when you yell “FIDO!” but it’s probably just because he expects a big bowl of food or his belly scratched. Somewhere along the line, somebody rewarded him for sayin’ this silly shit, and if you give him a moment, he’ll bring you one of these statements like a dog bringing his owner the paper, hopin’ for a pat on the head or a slice of bacon.
“Exact… Same… Sound,” he says. He perks his eyebrows up and nods his head at me, then says it again a little lower, “exact… same… sound.” He pulls the pump away from my ear, but he don’t say nothin’, he just looks at me like I’m supposed to react and that does it. I get real hard look on my face and pretend like I thought about it real deep, then I let out a real low whistle sound and stare off over my shoulder out the passenger window.
“That’s right,” he whispers, “That’s right. They sure do.” He let’s off after that. He puts the gun down in the backseat of the car and drinks some more of his coffee, starin’ out the window with a deep look on his face, puttin’ on a show for me like he’s some indian shaman illuminating the universe and not just a cop with a two dollar cup of coffee and a fifty cent bear claw. He looks back at me and gives me a little smile.
“Well not always,” I say, looking straight out the windshield. He sips his coffee.
“How you mean?” He asks.
“Well it’s not always the same sound. What about those kind of bird huntin’ guns where the barrel opens forward and you load the shells from behind? Those don’t make the same sound as a credit card machine.” I drink my own coffee and stare straight ahead. He swallows the last bit of his bear claw and brushes the crumbs off of his pants.
“So what’re you saying?”
“Nothin’. Just that it’s not always the same sound.”
“Right. But what’re you gettin’ at?”
“Nothin’ nothin’. Just they ain’t they always the same sound is all.”
“Well so what about it?”
“So what!” I say, throwing my hands in the air.
“So what?” he says
“So what!”
“Look, if you got somethin’ you wanna fuckin’ say, say it already. Stop playin’ around it like some fuckin’ faggot or somethin’ and say it already.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“Well just say your mom takes it in the ass for quarters.”
“Did you ever notice the best presidents are on the bills and not the coins? Like Reagan ain’t on no bill. You ever notice that?” I ask him with the most serious tone and face I can muster. “Think about that,” I say and point my index finger right at his face.
“Ronald Reagan ain’t on no bill, no coin, or not even that fucking mountain out in the montana’s, so what the fuck, exactly, is your point?” he asks.
“It’s just an observation. I’m just pointing this shit out is all. Nothin’ else to it.”
“Well here’s an observation. Why don’t you take Ronald Reagan, a credit card machine, a shotgun, a roll of quarters, a roll ‘a hundred dolla bills and your mother and stick ‘em all up your ass. Fucking douchebag.”
“I’m… Just… Sayin.”
“Ullueh. I’m just saying,” he repeats in a mocking little girly voice, waving his hands around in little fairy motions. “Prick.” he says.
He goes back to drinking his coffee, cursin’ me under his breath between sips. I have to turn my head away to hide my laughs.
“What’re you crying over there? Quit bein such a little girl. Jesus Christ!” he says. That almost ends it. I have to bury my face into my forearm to keep from bustin out. Oh this guy is gonna be a source of never endin’ amusement. I almost let out a big laugh when the radio crackles in.
“This is dispatch calling all available units. We have a domestic disturbance at 121 Almond St. Possible hostage situation. Be advised suspect is believed to be armed and dangerous. All units in the vicinity of 19th and Almond please respond immediately. Over.” And then the dispatcher’s voice fades out in the static. He grabs the mic.
“Dispatch this is unit 421 responding. We’re about 3 blocks away.” He sets the mic down and I seize the opportunity.
“What’re you doin?!” I yell at him, “Did you hear the address?”
“Yeah. I heard it,” he says. “121 Almond St. What the fuck about it?”
“Are you an idiot or somethin? We can’t take that call we’ll get killed!”
“The fuck you babblin on about now?”
“121 Almond st. right? That’s twelve plus one is thirteen. What the fuck good did you ever hear about the number 13?”
“Oh. My. Sweet. Fucking. Christ,” he says and then rests his head against the back of his hands, laying against the top of the steering wheel. He sighs heavily a few times and it takes everything I’ve got to not bust out laughin’ in his face. He brings his head up and looks me dead in the eye, his head turned completely to the right to face me.
“We’re car number 421. Four plus two plus one is seven. Lucky number seven. THEY CANCEL EACH OTHER OUT YOU MORON!” He puts his hand on the gear shift and moves it into drive, all without taking his eyes off of me. He hits the pedal and we go all of about four feet before we both go slamming forward into the dashboard and we hear a big loud metallic crunch, smoke rolling out from under the hood of the car. He hit a parked car. We look at each other for a second and then that’s it. I lose it. I start laughin’. I laugh so hard I can’t catch my breath.
He looks at me and yells out “WELL HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THEY DON’T CANCEL! GODDAMNIT!”
I have to open my door and lean out to get some air. How else am I supposed to make a career out of this?
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